Keeping the Ghosts at Bay
by mcatB
Summary: Dean's hiding something from Sam. Of course, this leads to disaster...
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note – I started writing this over a year ago. And then when I changed shifts at work, my muse abandoned me. I'd had absolutely NO motivation to write (let alone time). But now, dammit, I NEED to get back in the game. So this is what I've got to offer. I know it's short, but its better ithan nothing!! I still hope it meets your expectations.

Starts out pre-series, and may dip into some flashbacks… or not.

_June 2005_

Dean cursed as the sweat dripped into his eyes, the salt stinging, forcing them shut. Rubbing his forehead with his sleeve did no good; it was already soaked and wouldn't absorb any more moisture.

He'd run through and from the hospital as fast as he could, away from the prying eyes and pitying looks from the old nuns he'd practically run down upstairs, and the shouting orderlies and nurses who must have suspected he'd done something illegal as he raced past them in the Emergency Room downstairs.

He wasn't running fast enough, though. The ghosts were catching up to him. He stumbled as the first one tripped him up.

"No, not a ghost," he whispered to himself, picking himself up off the sidewalk. "It's not real."

When the second plunged its knife into his belly, Dean couldn't help but double over, dropping to his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

"It's not real, there's no knife," he ground out, refusing to look down at his abdomen, knowing he'd just see his clean tee, not the blood the ghost promised.

Bracing himself to rise again, Dean took a deep breath and regretted it almost instantly when his stomach heaved, bringing some traces of red along with bile and this morning's meal – a microwaved breakfast burrito from a highway gas station.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the pain away once again. After a few seconds, he looked up and saw the car down the street. Salvation was just another block away. He took another deep breath and held it as he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing onto a signpost after the ghost pushed him to the side again. "Stop it!"

One foot in front of the other, slowly, unsteadily, focusing on the black steel that was more than just a car, Dean finally made it to the Impala. Shaky fingers got the key into the driver's door lock on the third try and opened it up.

He slid into the driver's seat, locked the door and reached over to the glove box, not even giving himself a chance to feel or enjoy the relieved sigh that escaped his lips. Trembling hands fumbled with maps, weapons and fake IDs until he found the small plastic case hidden underneath them all.

Opening the case, he brought out the syringe. It didn't take long for his practiced hands, shaky as they were, to fill it with the liquid he'd gotten at the hospital. A few moments later, after the needle slid home into a vein inside his left elbow, Dean felt the burn rising up his arm and through his body and then the blessed numbness that always followed, both sensations chasing the ghosts away.

It had been too close this time. Too close to losing himself to the ghosts. Too close to not finding the fix in time. He couldn't say which was worse anymore – the nightmares the ghosts brought, or the fear of them – the anticipation of what happens when he doesn't take the hit. He knows he can't beat these ghosts. They aren't real – not in a salt and burn sense, anyway. These are untouchable. They are _his_ ghosts, of _his_ making.

Later, when he could feel again, when the world stopped spinning, when the last of the tremors calmed, Dean opened his eyes. He looked at his current supply. He nodded to himself as he put the syringe back in its case, hiding it in the glove box, below the other illegal items, as if finding it would be worse than finding the IDs and weapons. The rest of the stuff he shoved under the seat. He hoped he could last longer until the next time he needed it.

_October 2005_

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, banging on the bathroom door. "Come on, I gotta go!"

"Give me a minute, will ya? I just got in here!" Sam shouted back.

Dean paced impatiently outside the door, clutching the shaving kit in his hand, cursing the delay. He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, feeling the familiar twinge starting up. "Goddamn," he muttered, ready to head outside, his need growing.

Sam opened the door then, and barely got out of the way in time as Dean shoved his way past, slamming the door in his wake.

After muttering a few choice names at this brother, Sam moved across the room and sat down tiredly on the motel bed. They'd come out pretty lucky that morning, surviving the Wendigo attack – if just barely. Though Dean was a little worse for wear, sporting some bandages and suffering from a badly bruised up shoulder, that seemed to be par for the course for the Winchesters, Sam remembered.

He and Dean hadn't been back together for too long, having been apart for years, but he had easily slipped back into his role as a hunter and brother. His and Dean's ability to work together hadn't changed either, hadn't suffered from their years of separation while he'd been at school.

Lying back on the bed, one hand tucked under a pillow, Sam closed his eyes and thought of Jess. It was impossible not to think of her, her fiery image coming to him in his dreams each night, but this time he forced himself to think of the happy times, bringing up a smiling, laughing image.

Inside the bathroom, however, happy times were the last things Dean had on his mind. The injury to his shoulder was making him clumsy, sending sharp pains down through his elbow and wrist. He nearly spilled the contents of his shaving kit. And then the first whispers began.

_You think you can hide from us. You think you can hide us from your brother._

"Stop it."

_We're getting stronger. _

Dean cursed as the syringe dropped into the sink; picked it up.

_You're only putting us to sleep. _

_We're still here. We'll always be with you._

"Shut up."

_You're getting weaker._

He doubled over, thought he would fall, reached out and grabbed the sink edge for support. Grunted loudly as his shoulder protested.

"Dean?" Sam's voice.

"I'm fine, Sammy," he ground out. "Just moved my shoulder the wrong way. I'll be out in a minute." He filled the syringe, flicked it, getting the bubbles to rise before pushing them and a drop of the precious liquid out.

"You sure? Dean?"

"I'm fine, Sammy. Leave it alone."

_Maybe we'll get to play with Sammy, next._

"Fuck you," Dean cursed and plunged the needle into his vein, pushing the contents home, silencing the voices.

Ten minutes later Sam was waiting outside the door, hand raised, ready to knock, when Dean emerged from the bathroom.

"You okay?" he asked, giving Dean a quick look of concern before reaching for his shoulder.

Dean batted the hand away, though and continued into the motel room. "I'm fine. Just need some sleep is all."

_December 2005_

"Come on, Dean," Sam muttered. "Come on."

Sam looked at his watch again before firing the salt filled shotgun at the ghost. Mrs. Brightman, or her ghost, was not being too cooperative when it came to leaving her house. It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. The old lady hadn't been happy about her children fighting over who got her house, so to help them decide, or to stop arguing, she'd screamed that whoever got the house would have to deal with her. Of course, she didn't plan on the kids selling off the house to a new family…

Sam ducked as a lamp headed his way and pulled the shotgun trigger again.

"Dean, what's taking you so long?"

Dean had headed to the small family cemetery out back to dig up Mrs. Brightman's grave and do the actual salt and burn of her corpse. Normally a job for the both of them when digging with shovels, Dean had spotted a small backhoe that the current family had rented to do some renovation work, and volunteered to do the digging so that Sam could distract the ghost.

When the vase headed his way stopped and crashed to the floor three feet in front of him, Sam let out a breath. Finally. The ghost was gone. Sam was about to let out a sigh of relief when he realized that while the ghost may now be out of the house, it didn't mean it was really gone.

"Shit," he swore and ran out of the house, heading for the cemetery, and Dean.

Dean had indeed met up with the ghost of Mrs. Brightman. She'd lifted him up and out of the grave just as he'd gotten the casket lid open, sending him crashing into the scoop of the backhoe.

Sam had arrived as she'd begun to lift him again. Raising the shotgun, he aimed and fired at the ghost, banishing her for another few minutes – long enough for him to do the salt and burn, he hoped. Glancing quickly at his brother as he grabbed the gas can, Sam called out, "Dean?" but got no reply. He could feel the air getting colder as he emptied the gas can and began dumping the salt onto the corpse. Sam dropped the empty salt bag and reached into his pocket for his box of matches.

"Dean?" he called again, looking at his downed brother, as he struck the match and dropped it into the grave. It was not a moment too soon, either, he saw, as their tools and weapons had just started rising off the ground.

The flames rushed up from the grave and their tools and weapons dropped back down, but Sam still couldn't let out that sigh of relief he'd needed. Not with Dean still unconscious, and as he saw upon closer examination, bleeding.

"Shit, Dean," Sam swore, putting a gentle hand to Dean's cheek, turning his brother's head to the side, to see the cut just above his left ear. "Dean? Hey, you with me?" he called softly. He received no reply. He lifted Dean's eyelids one at a time and wasn't happy with the results of his findings.

Looking around them, seeing the Impala off in the distance of the property's front yard, Sam made a quick decision.

Hauling his brother in a fireman's carry was nothing new to Sam. Between the physical injuries Dean had received on the job and the drunken stupors he'd gotten into to deal with the emotional ones, Sam had the carry down pat.

It was a ten minute drive to the local hospital. Dean had moaned a few times, moved his head side to side a few times, but Dean hadn't been even close to regaining consciousness.

Sam didn't have to call out, the sight of him carrying his brother in his arms, blood dripping from Dean's head dripping onto him and the floor garnering him attention enough.

"What happened?" one nurse asked, moving the gurney toward Sam, allowing him to place Dean upon it.

"Slipped and fell, hit his head, I think," Sam replied. "I didn't see it happen," he added, just in case the medical staff found some other injuries.

"What's his name?"

Sam looked around the treatment room, now, seeing an entire medical team surrounding his brother now. "Dean. Dean Simmons," Sam replied. Then, as one of the nurses started to lead him out of the treatment area, he added, "He's my brother,"


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Sorry it took so long. Spent an entire vacation doing nothing. First day back to work and hello! Go figure. Short but sweet.

The nursing staff began to strip Dean down, exposing him, looking for other injuries.

"Shit," one of the nurses swore. "He's a user," she added, pointing to Dean's arms.

"Have the labs add tox screens to the blood work," the doctor ordered after taking a quick glance at the track marks marring Dean's skin before continuing with his exam, checking his patient's pupils. "What'd he do to himself?"

"Brother said he fell."

"Looks more like he was pushed," the doctor muttered, palpating the bruised skin of Dean's chest and abdomen. "Let's do up a full skull series and I want pictures of his chest, too."

The doctor stepped back a bit, letting the nurses move in to get blood samples, start oxygen and IV fluids and basically stabilize Dean. After a few moments he stepped out toward the waiting room and headed for Sam.

"Mr. Simmons?"

"How's Dean?" Sam asked, standing quickly.

"I'm Doctor Ward," the doctor greeted. "Your brother's pretty banged up. What did you say happened to him?"

"I think he fell. I'm not sure – I found him lying on the ground, unconscious," Sam replied, giving the doctor his most innocent puppy dog look. "Will he be all right?"

"He's probably got a concussion, maybe some cracked ribs," the doctor began. "But, Mr. Simmons, I have to believe that your brother didn't just fall down. I think he may have been assaulted."

"Assaulted?" Again, the innocent look.

"Maybe a drug deal gone bad?"

That threw Sam. "A drug deal??" he repeated, incredulous.

Ward gave Sam a sympathetic, yet knowing look. "If you could tell us what Dean's been using –"

"I don't know where you're getting your information, Doc, but Dean's not a user!" Sam cut in, a little irate now.

The doctor chose a different tactic. "Okay, then, does your brother have any such medical condition that would require daily injections?"

"What the hell are you talking about?! My brother is not some drug addict and until an hour ago was perfectly healthy!" Sam brushed a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I've spent the last three months living and traveling with him-" he continued until the doctor motioned him to follow.

Sam followed Dr. Ward back to the treatment area. He took a quick look at his big brother, noted the tubes of fluids and oxygen surrounding him, saw the bruising on his chest and the red stained bandage on his head.

"Take a look at his arms, Mr. Simmons. Tell me what you see."

Sam's lips parted, shock and confusion at what he saw evident on his face. He looked toward the doctor for help.

"We're doing tox screens on his blood to find out what he's been doing, but if you knew what he's been shooting up, that would have been helpful," Dr. Ward told him. "Judging by his injuries, he'll be here a few days. It'll help with treatment, to know what we're up against."

"I'm sorry. I didn't…" Sam started and stopped, not quite knowing what to say.

One of the nurses interrupted, announcing, "They're ready for him up in radiology," before helping the other nurses ready Dean for the trip.

Sam stood and watched them wheel Dean out of the treatment area. It took a gentle tap on his shoulder for him to realize he was in the way now, of the maintenance woman cleaning up the treatment area. He headed back to the waiting room, still stunned by what he had seen. _What the hell? Dean a drug addict??_ He couldn't recall any time in the last three months that Dean had had any more than a buzz from some beer or whiskey, let alone be stoned on some other drug. But he knew what he saw on Dean's arms. His time at Stanford hadn't been spent locked in his dorm room or apartment. He'd known people who shot up various things. Seen the results of their abuse. Dean didn't fit their profile. Dean knew better.

Sam looked at his watch. He knew it would be a while before Dr. Ward had any more information on Dean, or the results of any of the tests he was undergoing. He reached for the keys to the Impala and headed for the parking lot. He got into the car, started it and moved it to an isolated section of the parking lot, furthest from the hospital.

The first place he looked after parking the car was the glove box. He removed the box of fake IDs, shook out the folded maps, moved aside the empty gun magazine, Next he moved to the various storage compartments in the car – the ones not in the original vehicle specs – and moved aside the knives, ammo and handguns held within. Then he placed them all back.

He headed for the trunk next. After looking in the first, normal looking area, Sam propped open the false lid and checked through their other supplies and weapons. More ammo, gasoline, salt, hex bags, holy water, rope, knives, throwing stars… nothing any more illicit than usual. Sam closed the trunk with a sigh and thrust his hand through his hair.

When Dean started to wake up, with a wicked headache, all he could think about was getting even with whatever bartender it was that didn't cut him off. He didn't care how pretty she might have been, or where she would have taken him, this pain wasn't worth it.

_Sorry, Dean. Not the pretty bartender. Not this time._

Dean groaned aloud.

"Mr. Simmons? You need to lie still for a bit." He felt a gentle push on his shoulder.

_Yes, Dean. Lie still for a bit. Wouldn't want them to restrain you… then you'd be stuck with us._

"No. Please, let me up," Dean said with a groan, trying to push against the hand.

"Easy, Mr. Simmons," the woman said. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

"Not without screaming like a girl," Dean replied, realizing from the tone of the woman's voice that she must be a nurse and therefore he must be in the hospital. "I'm fine, though. Really. Tell my brother he can drive me home now."

_Sorry, Dean, but little brother ain't here. We've got you all to ourselves._

Dean wasn't sure which was worse, the broken ribs or the other things torturing his insides, but the next thing he knew he was curled up on his side, hugging his middle for all it was worth.

"Didn't even have to open your eyes, huh? You've got that girl scream down pat."

He wasn't sure who said that to him, the nurse or his ghost, but he didn't care.

"Oh, God!" he groaned. "We're in a hospital, right? I'm sure you've got plenty of morphine on hand that you could spare!"

"Is that your drug of choice, Mr. Simmons?" A male voice.

_Ooh, Dean. They've got you pegged! Or do they?_

"Son of a bitch," Dean got out as several pairs of hands moved to straighten him out.

"You've got a concussion and some broken ribs," the male voice, Doctor Ward, told him, moving into Dean's line of sight.

"Coulda told you that on my own, Doc," Dean replied. "Didn't need to put me in all this fancy machinery.

Dr. Ward smiled easily. "Call us cautious. Besides, until a few minutes ago, you weren't talking to anyone. But you _can _tell me one thing, Dean. What are you using?"

_Careful, Dean. Wouldn't want to tell the truth. You know where these people will put you if you tell them… Talk about detox!_

"Shut up!"

"Dean?"

"Not you," Dean said absently.

The doctor and nurse looked knowingly at each other.

"Where's my brother? Is Sam okay?"

_Took you long enough to ask about baby brother, Dean. Maybe you hit your head harder than you thought. Or maybe we still need to._

"Aaah!" Dean screamed, clutching the side of his head, squeezing his eyes shut.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam decided that he needed to go back to the motel. Maybe there was some clue, some evidence there that would help explain what he saw.

He still couldn't believe Dean would ever do any hard drugs. Hell, Dean hated taking anything more than Tylenol or a shot or four of whiskey even when he was hurt badly.

The sort of motels they'd grown up in and around weren't the Hiltons, hell, not even of the Holiday Inn caliber. The kind they usually stayed in rented by the day, if not the hour. Their "neighbors" were the drug addicts. He'd seen the looks Dean usually gave them. He was _not_ one of them.

But Sam couldn't ignore the track marks, either. If he'd just rescued Dean from someone, some supernatural or human thing, he could believe that Dean had been an unwilling participant, that someone had tied him down and drugged him against his will. That wasn't the case, though. They'd been together for months now. They hadn't been separated for more than a few hours at a time. Certainly not long enough for what he saw.

About five miles from the hospital, Sam pulled the Impala into their motel's parking lot. After entering the room, Sam went straight for Dean's duffle bag. He took a deep breath and then let it out. He felt weird knowing he was about to go through his brother's things. Sure, he'd borrowed an occasional tee shirt or pair of socks without permission, but to purposely… snoop… that wasn't what their relationship was about. He unzipped the duffle bag with determination, though. This wasn't about snooping. This was about saving his brother's life.

He took out the shirts and jeans, underwear and socks. He shook each one before putting them on the bed. Anything that had pockets were double checked and turned inside out. After going through the clothes, he found some paperback books. He leafed through them all, looking for secret cut-out compartments. He found one that had some money stashed in it, along with a few credit cards. Lastly he found Dean's shaving kit and Sam knew this had to be it. There were two cans of shaving cream. The first worked perfectly, and Sam wiped the small dab of cream onto the bedspread. The other one not only didn't work, but rattled. He twisted off the false bottom and two syringes fell out and landed on the pile of clothing.

"Aw, Dean…"

Sam fell back to sit on the other bed, disappointment and defeat evident in his voice and posture.

He looked at the two syringes with hatred, then, wondering what was so magical about them that Dean would stoop to their level. What was in them that Dean would risk his life? Hell, he was risking _Sam's_ life, too!

Sam put the syringes, one of them full, one of them empty, he noted, back into the can. He continued the search then, for the drug itself. Dean had to fill the syringes from some source…

A continued search of Dean's things and the motel room was fruitless, though. Sam decided to head back to the hospital. He'd give the syringes to Dr. Ward for testing, to see what Dean had been using.

"Hold him!"

The doctors and nurses each grabbed for a flailing limb, trying to hold Dean down and not get kicked or punched for their efforts.

"NO! Get out! Leave me alone!"

"Somebody get some restraints!"

"What the hell is this kid on?"

_If they only knew, huh, Dean?_

"Sammy!"

When Sam got to the hospital, he found himself haggling with the Admissions clerk.

"Dean Simmons," he repeated. "My brother. I brought him into the Emergency Room a couple of hours ago."

"Who is his doctor?"

"Dr. Ward," he repeated. "Look, I need to speak to Dr. Ward and I need to see my brother. If they're both in the same place, great," Sam went on, getting impatient.

"They still haven't admitted your brother, Mr. Simmons. He's probably still down in the ER," the clerk said, scanning through her computer.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair again. He'd just come from the ER. He let out a sigh. "Fine. Can you just page Dr. Ward, then?"

About ten minutes later Sam watched as Dr. Ward approached the Admissions desk.

"Mr. Simmons," he greeted Sam, his hand out.

Sam couldn't help but notice the red mark on the doctor's cheek. He shook his hand, warily. "Dean?" he asked, pointing at the bruise, though he recognized his brother's work. "I'm so sorry, Doc," he apologized.

"It's alright," the doctor interjected. "Not the first, won't be the last. The ER can be a real battlefield at times.

"How is he?"

"Sam, is it?" When Sam nodded, the doctor continued, "Does Dean have any other conditions, aside from the drug use, that may have altered his mental status?"

"Whoa, Doc…. Isn't drug use enough? Or the head injury, maybe?" Sam balked. "I'm telling you, he was fine. How is he now?"

"Obviously, your brother got combative with us. We've had to restrain and sedate him."

Sam bit his bottom lip and looked upward, upset at the vision he got of his brother, drugged and tied down to a hospital bed. "Sedation? Won't that interfere with his head injury? Or the drugs?"

"It was only a mild one – only enough to control him, not put him out," the doctor replied. He tilted his head and looked at Sam more closely. "Been through this before?"

Sam was on the defensive now. "I've got a few friends that have had concussions. Football players."

The doctor nodded.

"Look," Sam said, holding out the shaving cream can. He opened it up. "I found these in his duffle bag. Maybe you can figure out what he's been taking, so I can figure out what's going on."

The doctor took possession of the can and the syringes inside. "Thanks, Sam. As soon as we know what he's been taking, we can get a detox plan going; one that'll be easiest on him."

"Can I see him now?"

"Sure. We haven't found a room yet, so he's still in the ER."

"I was just there a little while ago and they said he wasn't…" Sam told him.

"We were still in radiology then. He's back. He's got a room all to himself," Dr. Ward explained and then led Sam to the ER.

"Illa phasmatis…"

_Dean... You've tried that already. You can't exorcise us. You know there's only two ways to get rid of us…_

"No. No. I'll beat you. I'll find another way."

_Time to be reminded._

Dean screamed in pain as the white hot pokers burned into his abdomen. He screamed in frustration, cursing loudly as he was unable to curl into the pain, his hands and legs restrained, tied to the bed rails.

"Fucking hell! Fucking fer-!"

"Dean!" Sam cried, seeing his brother writhing on the bed, cutting off Dean's latest curse. He went to Dean's bedside, putting what he hoped was a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Dean? Dean, calm down. It's all right." Dean did not respond to him, though, he was too caught up in the pain. "Doc, give him something!" he pled.

"It's the withdrawal, Sam. Until we know exactly what he's been taking, we can't give him anything more."

_Ask him, Dean. Ask Sammy. I bet he'd say yes. _

"No. No. No! Sammy! Sammy, go away!" Dean shouted. "Go away, Sam!"


	4. Chapter 4

Sam pulled the doctor aside. "I know I just brought you his needles, but you still don't know what he's been taking? Didn't you do blood tests?!"

"Yeah, we did, Sam. But they all came back negative," Dr. Ward replied.

"Sam! Get out of here! Now!"

Sam began to think that maybe his brother was possessed – he's heard that tone of voice from Dean before – usually when something bad – _supernaturally bad_ – was about to happen. But demons don't leave track marks. Either way, he didn't think it would hurt to check.

"Not leaving you, Dean," he told Dean, returning to his side. Then he leaned in closer and said, _"Christo." _No reaction. "Tell me, Dean. What's going on? What are you taking?" he whispered.

_You want to tell him, don't you, Dean. And you will. Eventually. But we like this game. Seeing poor Sammy worry about you so…_

But Dean only responded by crying out in pain again. And throwing up.

Just as Sam moved back out of the way, avoiding the mess, a nurse moved in to clean up and make sure Dean didn't choke.

"Go away, Sam," Dean whimpered. "Please."

Sam couldn't believe the desperation in Dean's voice. He thought he heard shame in it, too. Knew that this was more than just his brother in pain. He'd seen Dean in pain, heard him too. Too many times in their lives. This was different, and he didn't know how to handle it.

"Dean, look at me."

But Dean either wouldn't, or couldn't meet his gaze. Sam put his hands on either side of Dean's face and held it still, willing Dean to open his eyes. But Dean just shut them tighter as he groaned in agony, fighting the restraints in an effort to curl into a ball to fight the pain.

Sam let go and stood back, helpless. Putting his hands into his coat pockets as he leaned against the wall and watched his brother writhe in pain, fighting the restraints, he fingers rubbed against his cell phone. He contemplated calling their father's number. His jaw clenched in anger, knowing it would be useless to even try. John Winchester wasn't just MIA, Sam believed he was _choosing _not to communicate with his sons.

An orderly and another nurse entered the room and began moving some of the tubes and wires connected to Dean.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"We've got a room for your brother," one said. "You can follow us up if you want. Room three-twelve."

Sam sat by Dean's bedside for another hour or two, watching as his brother became weaker and weaker as he fought against the withdrawal pain. As much as he'd tried to get Dean to talk to him, begged him to tell him what was going on, what kind of drug or drugs Dean was taking – to give him some sort of clue – Dean refused to say anything to him. Other than telling him to go away, anyway. He looked up when someone new entered the room.

"Mr. Simmons? I'm Dr. Kelly. I've taken over your brother's case," the man said by way of a greeting.

Sam stood and shook the doctor's outstretched hand.

"Have you found anything new? Gotten those syringes tested?" Sam asked.

"We redid Dean's blood work again, with still no conclusive results," Dr. Kelly replied, shaking his head. "And those syringes were clean, too. Your brother must rinse them out – only water in them."

Sam let out a sigh and looked at his brother, who had begun writhing on the bed again, albeit weakly.

"Can you try to give him something for the pain? There's gotta be something you can do – you just can't expect a guy to go cold turkey," Sam asked the doctor.

"We can try to give him some Narcan – it should help if he's been taking narcotics," the doctor replied.

"Will that hurt him if that's not the case?"

"We'll monitor him closely."

Sam didn't like that answer. "I'll think about it," he told the doctor as he sat back down next to Dean, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder, trying to calm him.

Sam looked to the door as the doctor took his leave.

"Sam…" Sam looked at Dean and met his gaze. It was the first time in an hour Dean had seemed lucid.

"I'm right here, Dean."

"Sam… you need to go away. Please? You can't stay here. They'll take you, too," Dean struggled to get out, between gasps of pain.

"What are you talking about, Dean? Who will take me?"

"No. No. Can't tell."

"Dean?"

Dean didn't reply, though. Sam watched as Dean seemed to close in on himself again, squeezing his eyes closed, his breaths becoming shallow pants trying to control the pain.

Sam sat back in his chair and wiped the tears that had begun to fall as he looked at his brother in sadness and frustration.

"Sure, Dean, you leave messes in and around everything you own. The only thing you ever clean are the guns and your car!" Sam stood up and began pacing angrily around the room. "Can't clean up your dirty dishes or do your own laundry, but you fucking rinse out your needles!" He stopped and laughed to himself as he looked at Dean again. "I guess you paid attention to all those Health Department PSAs on TV – always use a condom and never share needles!"

Sam ran a hand through his hair and sat back down. "Of all the things, Dean. When I need you to be a slob, you run water through your fucking syringes," he whispered, dropping his head, letting it hang down.

No sooner had Sam hung his head, though, did he bring it straight back up, bringing his gaze to Dean. "Water," he whispered. "Water," he said again, louder, as he stood up. "Son of a bitch, Dean!"

Sam rushed to the nurses' station down the hall from Dean's room.

"Excuse me?" he called to the nurse on duty. "I need a priest. Is there one here at the hospital, or one on call?"

"Yes, I saw Father Gann a little earlier," she replied. "But really, Mr. Simmons, your brother isn't that bad off…" she added.

"Can you page him for me?" he asked, then added, "I really think he'll be able to help Dean and I," giving the nurse his best puppy-dog-eyed look.

"Sure."

Sam watched and listened as the priest's name was paged on the hospital intercom system, telling him to come to room 312. Sam returned to Dean's room and approached the bed.

"Am I right, Dean? You got yourself in some kind of mess – got yourself possessed or something?"

_Ooh, he's onto us, Dean! Time to end this?_

"No!" Dean screamed.

"Yes, Dean!" Sam replied, not hearing the voices taunting his brother.

Dean screamed again, writhing in the bed, fighting against the restraints again.

"Oh, my," Sam heard whispered behind him. He turned to see the man who whispered it. Father Gann had shown up.

"Father, thanks for coming," Sam said.

"Addiction is a frightening and painful experience not only for the addict, but for his family," the priest said. He held his hand out to Sam in greeting. "I'm Father Gann."

"I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean."

"Shall we pray together, Sam?" Father Gann asked, approaching Dean on the opposite side of the bed from Sam.

Sam ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Actually, Father… I've kinda got a weird request." The priest gave Sam a look that told him that this probably wasn't something he hadn't heard before.

"What do you need, Sam?"

"I need you to bless Dean's IV – like you would for holy water," Sam told him.

Father Gann raised his eyebrows. "Okay, that _is_ a new one. Why?"

_It's over, Dean. Ready to die? We'll say goodbye to Sammy for you._

Dean cried out painfully as he fought against the ghosts, "Sammy! Go away! Hurry!" he got out.

Somehow Sam heard a different kind of urgency in his brother's voice. He knew he no longer had time to waste.

"Please!" Sam begged the priest. But when the priest hesitated, Sam reached for his gun and pointed it at Father Gann's head. "Just do it! Now!" he threatened.

Father Gann swallowed as he nodded his head, put his hand on Dean's IV line and said the words Sam wanted to hear.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Sincerest apologies for the long wait. Work had to be done, the kids had to be tended to, the muse had to be given CPR… Thanks for your patience. Hope this will suffice for now. Mady

Father Gann nodded his head, put his hand on Dean's IV line and said the words Sam wanted to hear.

"Comeoncomeoncomeon…" Sam muttered, listening intently to the priest, watching Dean's writhing form for any sign of improvement.

"…Amen."

The transformation was so instantaneous, so radical – Dean sinking into the pillow and mattress, no sounds coming from him, not a twitch of muscle seen – that Sam was afraid he was too late.

"Dean? Dean, come on, man, wake up," he called, putting a hand to his brother's cheek.

When he got no response, his hand moved down to Dean's neck at the same time his eyes looked to the heart monitor. His sigh of relief came at the same time as Father Gann's next words.

"A holy water IV… huh… So he thinks he's possessed?"

Sam turned toward the priest, his mind trying to come up with some sort of explanation for the man – they'd met many a priest that, despite the church's teachings, ancient as they were – did not believe in demons or possessions or exorcisms.

"Dean's not crazy," Sam replied, defensively, unconsciously gripping the gun still in his hand.

"I didn't say that."

That comment threw Sam for a moment. "I'm not crazy either."

Father Gann let out a sigh. "You may want to put the gun away, then, Sam, before someone walks in and thinks otherwise," he suggested.

"Oh," Sam started, looking at the gun still in his hand. "About that, hey, sorry, man," Sam sputtered out, putting the gun back in its place on his waistband, under his jacket.

"Desperate measures," the priest replied, "…understandable. Judging by your actions, I guess this really is your brother, right?" Sam nodded. "What makes you think he's possessed?"

"I never said he was."

Father Gann sat down in the chair next to the bed and looked at Dean, then at Sam. Nodded his head and made a decision. "You boys hunt, don't you. And I'm not talking deer or elk."

"What… how?" was all Sam could come up with. Sam looked at the priest, scrutinizing him – wondering how he knew of their work – were there other hunters out there? Then he looked away, at Dean.

"I've only met one other hunter, Sam. We exorcised a demon together," Father Gann went on, feeling the need to explain himself a bit to Sam – let him know of his belief in the young man. "A pastor in a small rural church. Met him at a religious retreat – "

"Jim? Was it Pastor Jim?" Sam asked, looking at the priest again.

"You know him," the priest said, nodding his head. "Small world we have here, Sam. Or maybe it's God's work, putting us together?"

"I'll take a pass on the whys and wherefores, Father," Sam said, sitting up. "But I do owe you a thank you for being here."

Father Gann nodded his head, acknowledging Sam's lack of religion. "So what happened?"

Sam told him of their recent hunt, of their recent travels – only enough to point out the fact that Dean had been normal and had been in his presence for the past few months – that there was nothing to suggest any possession, let alone drug use. He told him that it was just a gut feeling that his brother was injecting himself with holy water, because no drugs were found in his system – and that holy water was one of their trade's supplies.

"It just doesn't make sense – this isn't a demon. Yet… the way it reacts to holy water – obviously Dean's been using it to control the possession. We saw the reaction here…" Sam ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

The men sat silently for a few minutes, trying to come up with an answer.

"I'm afraid this is beyond my knowledge, Sam," Father Gann said. "I only know what Jim's told me – what you hunters deal with – but I've only had that one encounter. Maybe you should give him a call?"

Sam nodded his head. "Yeah, I've got a couple of people I can call."

"Or, hopefully, your brother can enlighten you – "

"He obviously doesn't know how to get rid of it – he's still possessed!" Sam exclaimed, standing up from his seat. He started to pace, turned toward Dean and muttered, "Stupid son of a bitch, should have told me!" and paced some more.

"Maybe he knows _what_ it is, or maybe it's possible that whatever it is has made it impossible for him to seek help," Father Gann continued his suggestion, sticking up for a man he really hadn't met. "Or… maybe it really isn't any sort of possession at all… maybe there really is something physically or psychologically wrong."

"No." Sam was adamant in his denial, shaking his head. "Something's inside him. Something evil."

Father Gann looked at his watch. "Listen, Sam, I've got some other patients I need to see…"

Sam stopped in his tracks and looked at the priest. He let out a tired sigh. "Yeah, sure, I understand. I, um…" He looked at Dean and the IV.

"If it'll make you feel better, I'll stop back later, and do it again, Sam," Father Gann offered. "Though I would think that if he'd been getting by on a syringe-full for as long as it looks –" he motioned to the track marks on Dean's arms – "I'm sure an IV bag's worth should hold him for a while."

Sam tried to get a smile come to his lips, but the worry and anger in his eyes prevented anything more than the raising of one corner of his mouth.

Father Gann handed Sam a business card, and an offer for Sam to call if he needed anything.

Sam sat back down at Dean's bedside and began wracking his brain, trying to figure out what exactly was inside his brother.

Sam had only been alone with Dean for a few minutes when Dr. Kelly and one of the nurses stopped in to check on Dean. After checking his patient's vital signs, he wrote some notes on Dean's chart and looked toward Sam.

"He seems to have turned a corner – you'd never know he was coming down." The doctor's voice showed his surprise. "If I didn't know better, I'd think Dean was just sleeping off his head injury."

"Yeah, about that…" Sam started. "Um…"

"I don't think he's out of the woods, yet, Mr. Simmons. His body is exhausted and he's catching up on some much needed rest," the doctor went on. "If anything, we need to watch him for any rebound – make sure his vitals stay stable."

Sam nodded, but basically ignored the doctor. If the IV of holy water truly was what made Dean calm down, if he really was possessed by something, he needed a game plan – one that didn't include Dean being cooped up in the hospital's detox or psych wards.

"Considering… I think we should cancel any plans for that narcan or other drug therapy," Sam told the doctor. "Let him ride it out."

"Like I said, we'll be keeping a close eye on his condition."

Sam watched the doctor leave. The nurse stayed a bit longer, checking the IV line and heart monitor wires, before tucking the blanket and sheet around Dean. When she left, Sam brought out his cell phone, and punched in a number.

"Pastor Jim? It's Sam."

Sam spent the next half hour talking with Pastor Jim, giving him all the information he had on what Dean was going through. Unfortunately, the cleric didn't have any positive answers for Sam, but promised to keep looking and get back in touch with him. Sam also asked Pastor Jim to call any others they might know, to see what kind of hunts Dean might have been on prior to the brothers reuniting.

Sam also sat thinking about any of the hunts Dean had mentioned to him. Four years worth – with and without their father along – was time for a lot of hunting – with too many places and things for Dean to have been to and dealt with.

When Dean began to stir, Sam was ready to pounce. At the first groan, he was calling his brother's name.

"Dean!" Sam caught the anger in his voice and toned it down. "Dean?" he called more softly. "Come on, big brother, time to wake up."

"Sam?" Dean managed, a moan coming out with Sam's name. He looked around uneasily. He tried to sit up; failed. "What happened?"

Sam warred with his emotions – Dean sounded truly confused.

"Old lady Brightman knocked you for a loop," Sam replied. He would bide his time.

Dean closed his eyes and tried to bring a hand up to rub them, but was stopped by the restraints. "What the hell?" He began tugging both his hands and then his feet in earnest then. "Sam!"

"Easy, Dean," Sam tried to soothe as he unfastened the restraints. "You were a little out of control earlier."

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean swore and rubbed his head with his freed hands, wincing when one touched the stitches above his left ear. "Old lady wasn't fooling around."

"So you do remember Mrs. Brightman and the job at her house?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, of course. Why? How long have I been out of it?" Dean asked as he began to move about, hoping to get out of bed so he could leave, like any other time he'd been in a hospital.

But Sam put a hand on his shoulder and easily shoved him back onto the bed.

"What else do you remember, Dean?" Sam asked carefully, sliding his hand down to Dean's wrist. Okay, so he couldn't wait. "Do you remember why you have these?" he asked, locking Dean's arm and motioning to the track marks at Dean's elbow.

Dean struggled and tried to escape Sam's grasp. "It's none of your business, Sam."

Sam let go then and stood up, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "It's none of my business? Dean! You're addicted to holy water for Christ's sake! What the hell is going on?!"

The brothers stared at one another, neither giving an inch. Sam stepped closer; towered over Dean, still lying on the bed. "What is inside you, Dean?" he asked.

"Demon ghosts," Dean whispered.

Sam's head cocked to one side. "Demon ghosts?" he questioned. "What the hell are they? And more importantly, why didn't you tell me?"

Dean looked away, ran his tongue over his top teeth, trying to find a way to continue to keep this information from his brother.

"I'm handling it, Sammy."

"Handling it?!?!" Sam yelled back. "Dean, you were in full DTs – before I had that priest turn your IV into _holy_ saline solution, you were suffering from full blown withdrawal!"

"What priest?"

Sam stepped back, thrown off track by Dean's question. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that you've got something inside you – a demon ghost, whatever that is – and therefore you're compromised! How the hell are we supposed to do our jobs, hunting demons and ghosts – when you've got one of them inside you?" Sam was about to continue when the little light bulb went off in his head. He put a palm to his forehead and sat back down in the chair next to the bed. "Holy shit that sounded just like Dad." He shook his head. "No wonder you didn't tell. He would have taken you out of the game."

Dean remained silent, still not daring to look at Sam.

"Obviously you've probably tried to get rid of it."

"Them."

"Them? There's more than one?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Twins," Dean replied, meeting Sam's gaze with a raised eyebrow and a shrug, but still sullen. He took a breath and let it out loudly. "They were inside some eight year old girl in Arkansas. She was in so much pain. Said the only way they'd leave her was if she died, or if someone volunteered to take them instead." He looked away again.

"So you pulled a Father Damien?!" Sam balked, standing up from his chair again. "Son of a bitch, Dean!"

"She was freakin' eight years old, Sam!" Dean shouted back. "What was I supposed to do?"

Sam had no reply. He looked away, paced the room, then looked back at Dean. "I'll be back in half an hour. Be ready to go."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: You're all thinking – holy crap! She's updated! Yay!! Thanks for sticking with me (those of you who are reading). I really didn't mean to take this long to update, honest! I hope it won't take six months for the next chapter…

Dean watched the door close and rubbed his hands down his face. "Son of a bitch," he whispered to himself, realizing how far he'd let the situation go, having gotten so used to the routine – the near daily injections of holy water – that he felt he'd actually had it under control. He understood Sam's anger. He began to think back about that eight year old girl.

_March 2005_

"Please, Mister Winchester! You've got to help my daughter!" the woman pled, holding the screaming young girl down in her chair.

Dean had done the exorcism, spoken the Latin flawlessly, without success. He couldn't understand what might be wrong – unless it wasn't a supernatural problem at all…

"I don't understand what's wrong, why it didn't work," he told the woman. "This should have worked." He brought the bottle of holy water out and poured some into a glass. "Help her drink this," he instructed.

The young girl gagged on the water a bit, but unlike the screaming, steam filled reaction Dean expected, the young girl just calmed down, as if finally ready fall asleep.

"Mommy!" she sobbed, tiredly. "They won't go away."

"Theresa? Who are they?" Dean asked gently.

"The bad men inside me. They say they won't go away until I'm dead!" she sobbed, curling into her mother's arms.

"You've got to get rid of them!" the mother cried, holding Theresa tighter.

"Sweetheart," Dean continued, getting Theresa to look into his eyes. "This is really important. Where are they now? Why are they letting you talk to me?"

"The water put them to sleep," Theresa replied with a sniff.

"Did they say if there was any other way to make them go away? I want to make them go away, Theresa. I want to make it so they leave you alone forever."

The little girl closed her eyes and tried to remember. She screamed then, making Dean and her mother jump back a bit. "_You_ can take us, Dean," a voice that was not Theresa's said. "We'll stay with you, instead, and spare the girl."

Dean looked at the girl; at the pleading eyes of her mother. Turning back to the girl, his arms spread out, he said, "Come on in, _bitches_."

_December 2005_

As promised, Sam returned thirty minutes later, hospital discharge paperwork in hand. He didn't say anything to Dean, just waited patiently for his brother to finish dressing. Dean stayed silent, too. He knew he needed to talk to Sam, tell him more of the story, of what he knew; he just needed the right venue, not some stark hospital room with people listening and interrupting.

He let Sam drive. Hell, after stumbling twice while they walked across the parking lot and getting _the glare_ from Sam, he knew enough not to even go to the driver's side of the car. He wanted to leave this place, not spend an hour shouting with Sam over who got to drive the half an hour to the motel.

Maybe as a reward for not fighting over the keys, Sam took them through the drive-thru of Taco Bell, their first words spoken being their food and drink orders shouted at the menu box. Dean had muttered a quick, "Thanks, Sam," to his brother as he accepted the bags, but Sam just put the car in gear and drove out of the lot and back onto the road to the motel.

Another half an hour later, taco and burrito wrappers shoved into the garbage and brothers each lying back against their respective headboards, Sam finally broke his silence.

"From the beginning."

_March 2005_

"Dad, I can do this," Dean said into the phone, pacing around the motel room. "You're still a day's drive away, I'm just over the border in Oklahoma. This is a simple exorcism." He stopped pacing; listened to his father. "She's eight years old, Dad. I think I can handle her." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I handled Sammy all those times, didn't I?" He knew that last line was a risk, and worried when his Dad was silent for too long. He started pacing again. His fingers started pulling at his hair. Finally, a response. Yahtzee! "Of course I'll keep in touch! I'll call you as soon as it's done."

Putting the phone back in his pocket, Dean let out a sigh and sat down heavily on the bed. After a few seconds, he began planning, listing in his head all the things he'd need for the exorcism.

Dean arrived at the small Arkansas home two hours later. It was a fairly new single-wide, set far from the road, far from any other homes. No outdoor furniture, no plants, no toys, bikes or other signs that anyone lived there, except for the old Honda Civic parked in front of his.

When he'd talked to Melissa Connor the day before, she'd told him of her daughter's plight. Two months prior, the girl had started acting strangely. Cursing, throwing things, breaking things… more than the usual brattiness of a child going through some tough times. Melissa and Theresa had just moved to their home after the suicide of Melissa's husband. Theresa had witnessed it. Melissa had immediately gotten the girl counseling, but it didn't seem to be working. Someone had compared Theresa to Regan, the little girl in _The Exorcist_, and Melissa began wondering if that wasn't a possibility. Somehow she managed to get in contact with John Winchester…

"You bitch!!"

Dean looked toward the house, the source of the curse, and winced as a Barbie doll came crashing through one of the bedroom windows.

"This is the place," he muttered and opened the trunk of the Impala. He grabbed the duffle bag, packed with the necessary tools for an exorcism, and headed for the front door.

He was about to knock when Melissa Connor opened the door. "Mr. Winchester?" she asked, hope evident in her voice.

Dean nodded as he introduced himself as, "Dean," and allowed himself to be ushered into the living room.

"He can't help you, Melissa!!" was screamed from a back room, followed by loud thumping and pounding.

"I had to tie her up," Melissa cried, looking desperately at Dean. "I feel so cruel. Like I'm some abusive parent you read about," she said, quickly adding, "but I'm not!"

"So she can't untie herself?" Dean asked, thinking about all he knew of demons and their capabilities. "Can she move things? Talk in other languages?"

"No…no," Melissa replied. "She's just… mean; nasty. And strong – she' s hurt me and others. But worse, is that she's in so much pain. And before you ask again, no, the doctors haven't been able to find anything. Hell, when she's with the doctors, she's the perfectly normal little girl I knew."

"Hunter!! Hunter in the house!" Dean heard, and knew for sure that this was his kind of gig – a normal, though emotionally disturbed, little girl wouldn't know what a hunter was…

Dean put his duffel bag onto the couch and began to remove some of the items. He ignored the looks Melissa gave him, seeing the old, worn book, salt, holy water, crosses and rope.

"Mrs. Connor? How did your husband die? What was he like before he killed himself?" he asked as he continued lining up his supplies.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Melissa said. "He was acting just like Theresa – he was mean, nasty to us. I had called the police and we were waiting, ready to go to the women's shelter when he shot himself. I'm afraid she'll hurt herself, too."

"That won't happen," Dean assured her, and headed down the hall toward Theresa's room.

_December 2005_

"So you tried the exorcism and it didn't work," Sam remarked.

"It should have – even now I think that," Dean replied.

_March 2005_

"Come on in, _bitches_," Dean said, arms spreading out. His right hand still held the bottle of holy water and as he brought it away from his body, he pushed it into Melissa's hand, giving her a pleading look.

He felt the pain the moment the brothers entered him, searing through his eyes and throat, crushing his chest. He remembered screaming, throwing his head back, mouth open wide, as the two let him exhale.

The next thing he remembered was Melissa's concerned gaze as she sat across the room from him, sitting on Theresa's bed, cradling the child in her arms.

He tried to move, but found himself tied, hand and foot, to the same chair Theresa had been tied to last he recalled.

"Mrs. Connor?" he asked.

She flinched at the sound of his voice, but didn't move from the bed.

"Is Theresa okay? Have they left her?"

She nodded her head, and whispered, "She's my baby again."

"Did you use all the holy water?" he asked.

"As much as I could," she replied. "You started choking on it…"

"Give me the rest before you untie me," he told her.

_December 2005_

"Okay, so you were able to calm them down, put them to sleep by drinking holy water," Sam concluded. "Demons wouldn't have put up with it, let alone 'go to sleep' inside you. What the hell are these things?"

"That's just it – I'm guessing, mostly," Dean admitted. "When they're 'sleeping' it's like they're not even around – I don't feel them or anything. When the holy water starts wearing off, it's… it's all pain and torture, Sam. I just want it to end. I've learned not to ask too many questions. I'm afraid of what they'd do to someone else. I just shoot up as soon as I can."

"And how'd that start?"

"Accident. Got scraped by a ghoul, and while I was washing out the wound with holy water, got instant gratification. Lasted longer than drinking it."

"So you started mainlining for the quicker high," Sam drawled.

"I'm not some drug addict, Sam!" Dean shouted, standing up to pace the room. "I'm not shooting up heroin! Jeez!"

"Okay, okay," Sam placated, putting up his hands. "Fine. You're injecting holy water to keep these demon things quiet." Needing to get back on track, to find a solution for his brother's real problem, he asked, "What made you think they were ghosts?"

"I don't know, just a feeling – something they've said about dying," Dean replied, sitting on his bed again. "Demons don't die, they just go back to hell. People die; become ghosts."

"But ghosts don't usually possess people," Sam added. "They haunt them. So who are these guys? Twins, you said?"

"Every now and then I caught glimpses… saw enough that they were twin brothers, but that's it."

"You ask anyone help?" Sam asked. "Uncle Bobby? Pastor Jim?"

Dean just looked down and away.

Sam shook his head. "No of course not," he reasoned. "You're afraid they would have called Dad." He stood up and walked over to Dean. "Pastor Jim didn't know anything," adding, "yeah, I talked to him," when Dean gave him a pained look. "He'll call us if he finds anything out. I have one more person I can call, though," he said, pulling his cell from his pocket.

Dean watched, uncertainty on his face until he heard Sam say, "Missouri?"


	7. Chapter 7

"I knew he was hiding something," Missouri told Sam, looking unhappily at Dean, "but I couldn't figure out what. Now I know that it was because he didn't know for sure, either. That and all the stuff that was going on with your old house clouding up things…"

Dean looked away, uncomfortable with the situation. As much as he knew Missouri was a good woman – she'd helped them immensely at their old house – he still wasn't comfortable with anyone being able to look inside his head; read his thoughts.

He'd stewed about it in the passenger seat of the Impala for the past two days. Sam hadn't let him drive yet – he still suffered the occasional dizzy spell from his concussion. And there was the fact that Sam didn't trust Dean to get them to Missouri's in any good time, either.

She'd been sitting on her front porch when they arrived and readily welcomed them into her home and it wasn't long after that they began discussing the situation.

"What will we need to do?" Sam asked.

"We're going to have to let the holy water wear off," she said, looking at Dean, wanting to sense and see his reaction. "Right now, with those things dormant, I can't read them; don't even know anything's there. If they wake up again, maybe then I'll be able to sense them and see what they really are."

"And once we know that, then maybe we can get rid of them," Sam finished.

He looked at Dean then, who hadn't said much of anything since arriving at Missouri's house. He didn't like the idea of the holy water wearing off, letting the demon ghosts torture his brother again. Dean looked unsure. A bit scared, too, not that he'd admit it.

"What do you think, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean stood and paced a bit back and forth. He didn't want to go another round with the twins, either, but he also didn't want to have to deal with them for the rest of his life. He finally stopped and looked at Sam and Missouri in turn. After another second or so, he let out a sigh and nodded his head. "I need a drink, first," he said, and walked to and out the door.

"Dean?" Sam asked, rising from the table where they'd been sitting, ready to follow.

"He'll be back, Sam. He'll go through with it," Missouri told Sam, reassuring him. She patted the chair he'd been sitting in, motioning him to sit down again. When he was seated, she continued, "We do need to plan carefully."

"Father Gann gave us a case of bottled water that he'd blessed," Sam told her, giving half a smile. "And I grabbed some more syringes before we left the hospital."

"How long do we have before that IV he had wears off?" she asked.

"We don't know," he replied with a shrug. "Could be a couple of days… but then, it's _already_ been a couple of days."

"Why don't you boys stay with me, then?" she offered. "That way, when it does happen, I'll be close by. I should be able to feel them before Dean does; _if_ they're anything like any other demons or ghosts I've met."

"That's just it, Missouri – these _aren't_ like any other demons or ghosts we've met."

Three nights later, Missouri sat up in bed, suddenly very uneasy. Someone else was in her house. Brothers. But not the ones she had invited to stay…

She dressed quickly and moved to the front bedroom that Sam and Dean were sharing. She knocked twice. "Sam? Dean?" she called.

Sam opened the door, sleepily greeting his host, "Missouri?" He saw the look of concern on her face. "They're waking up," he surmised.

She nodded in response. Sam held up a finger and closed the door. After turning on the light, he looked to see if Dean had wakened. His brother was sitting up on his bed, starting to get dressed.

Sam finished dressing. As he did so, he asked, "Can you feel them? Hear them?"

"Not yet," Dean replied.

When both were presentable, they met Missouri in the kitchen, where she was starting a pot of coffee.

"What can you tell so far?" Dean asked.

"They're brothers, like you said. Twins – very complimentary of each other," she said, turning to face Sam and Dean. "Yet, very much alike, too – mean men."

"That's it?!" Dean asked, incredulous. "We came all this way – "

"Dean…" Sam started, upset with his brother's impatience.

"It's all right, Sam," Missouri said, patting his shoulder, used to Dean's poor attitude. "Your brother will change his tune."

_Yes, Dean, we'll change your tune!_

"Dean!" Missouri shouted, warning.

But Dean just screamed out in pain, doubling over and dropping to his knees.

"Dean!" Sam shouted right after, coming to his brother's side, putting his arms around Dean's shoulders.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean ground out, rocking back and forth, hugging his middle tighter.

_She can't get rid of us, either, Dean!_ the voices taunted. _Why do you even bother trying? You _know_ how to get rid of us!_

"Missouri? Now would be a good time for some of your mojo!" Dean begged, crying out again as the knives stabbed deeper into his belly.

"Sam, I need you to let go of Dean and back away a bit," Missouri asked as she came to kneel on the floor next to Dean. Once Sam reluctantly let go of Dean, she put her hands just above Dean, moving them to and fro, feeling him, yet not touching him.

"Who are you?" she whispered softly.

Sam wasn't sure if she was just speaking aloud to herself or if she was asking the brothers that question.

As if in response to the question, though, Dean suddenly surged forward, shouting, "NO!!" and violently shoving Missouri backwards so that her back hit the kitchen cabinets.

"Dean!" Sam cried, reaching for his brother, wrapping his body around, trapping Dean on the floor.

But Dean, or rather, the brothers inside him, fought back, head butting Sam and giving him a bloody lip. But Sam held fast.

"Calm down, Dean," he gritted out.

"It's not Dean," Missouri told him, moving closer to the wrestling pair. She reached out then and put her hands on Dean's forehead and cheek, forced him to make eye contact.

"Missouri, please… hurry!" Dean cried weakly, turning away in a scream as the brothers tried to block Missouri's attempts to see them by hurting Dean some more.

Sam was shoved against the kitchen table as Dean rolled them around on the floor. Just as he was about to plead for Missouri to hurry up as well, she shoved the open end of one of the blessed water bottles into Dean's mouth and forced him to drink.

A few minutes later, with half the bottle drenching his shirt and the other inside him, Dean finally stopped thrashing and Sam was able to let go.

Sam looked questioningly at Missouri.

"I don't feel them anymore," she replied. "Dean? Are you all right, Honey?"

Dean rolled bonelessly onto his back, clearly exhausted, and whispered, "Just peachy."

After another moment or two, he sat up, wincing slightly, and using one of the countertops as leverage, managed to stand. He reached for another of the bottles of holy water and downed it in six large gulps.

Looking at Sam, he motioned to the blood dripping from his lip and said, "You should take care of that," as if it was a minor paper cut.

Then he looked expectantly at Missouri, saying nothing.

Sam grabbed a napkin and dabbed at his lip and then he, too, looked toward Missouri.

"I know who they are. And what they are," she added with a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

"I know who they are. And what they are," she added with a smile. "But first, let's get you taken care of, Honey," she said to Dean.

Dean was ready to deny the pain he was in, the wrestling with Sammy having jostled his sore ribs and head, but the looks Missouri and Sam both gave him told him that it was useless to do so.

He let them lead him into the living room and to a comfortable chair. Missouri handed him a glass of water and some Tylenol while Sam gently probed his ribs, making sure nothing was more out of place than before.

"I'm fine – or I will be – once Missouri tells us how to get rid of these things," Dean told them.

Once Sam was satisfied that Dean was no worse for wear, he sat down and nodded to Missouri, telling her that he, too, was more than ready to hear what she had to say.

"Twin brothers, Thomas and Timothy Jergensson," she began. "Nasty criminals to start with, they were possessed by demons when they were in their early twenties."

"How'd anyone know the difference?" Dean muttered, but when Missouri raised an eyebrow at him he quickly stated, "It's a valid question."

"And who exorcised them?" Sam put in.

"They were exorcised," Missouri went on, not answering their questions, continuing, "both demons were sent back to Hell. Then the brothers went on in life to continue to be mean, nasty men – criminals, sadists…" There was sadness and disgust in her voice. "They were shot and killed by the brother of one of their victims."

"Okay, so mean nasty brothers, possessed by demons," Sam began.

"Exorcised, and continuing to be mean, nasty people," Dean added.

"And then dying violently," Missouri continued, adding, "not a good combination."

"Anything in Dad's journal about what happens to people after demons are exorcised?" Sam asked.

"No…" Dean replied. "And it's not like we hang around too long afterwards, either."

"And I_ really_ don't think there are any follow up studies or statistics on demon possession," Sam added, somewhat sarcastically. He stood and began pacing the room.

"Ghosts appear when there is unfinished business, or when there's been a violent death," Missouri said. "The violent death fits here."

"But, since when do people retain demon traits – before or after they turn into ghosts?" Sam asked.

"Most people resist demon possession," Dean put in. "Maybe these guys liked it. Maybe even asked for it."

"Exactly," Missouri said. "The Jergenssons called up the demons; welcomed them."

Sam put his hands on his hips. "Fine. We know who they are and basically how they got to be what they are."

"But how do we get rid of them?" Dean asked.

"They're still ghosts," Missouri said, looking back and forth between both brothers.

"Salt and burn?" Sam asked, incredulous, as if it was too simple a solution.

"We know who they are now," Dean responded, starting to stand up. "Piece of ca- aah!" Dean cried out, suddenly grabbing his chest and sinking back onto the chair.

"Dean?!"

"Get the holy water, Sam!" Missouri ordered, putting her hands on Dean's.

_It's not going to be that easy to get rid of us, Dean! _

"Shut the fuck up!" Dean cried out.

Sam returned to the room with a bottle of holy water. Dean guzzled it down as soon as the bottle was put into his hands.

After a few minutes, when Dean got his breath back, he grabbed onto Sam and stood up, letting out a small groan. He gave Sam a look and headed toward the bedroom he and Sam were sharing.

Sam followed soon after and saw Dean readying one of the syringes. Dean stopped what he was doing and looked up. He saw the uncomfortable look on Sam's face, felt the feeling in himself.

"I'll…uh…" Sam stammered, jacking his thumb toward the door and the hallway, showing his willingness to give Dean some privacy.

"No, Sam," Dean said, stopping him. "It's okay. Actually, I could use your help here," he added, lifting a shaky hand.

"Those bottles of holy water haven't lasted at all," Sam said, taking the syringe from Dean's hand and sitting next to him on the bed.

"I used to be able to go longer…"

Sam heard frustration in Dean's voice.

"Maybe they've built up a tolerance," Sam suggested, injecting the holy water into Dean's vein. "Or now that we know who and what they are, they're fighting a little harder."

Dean nodded. Sam looked closely at his brother and saw more than just frustration in his demeanor.

"Why don't you get some sleep," he suggested. "I'll start looking for them. Maybe Missouri has an idea of where they might be, too."

Sam watched as Dean's head hit the pillow. He pulled the blanket up and over him and headed back to the living room. Missouri was waiting for him, the coffee she'd started earlier reheated and sitting in mugs on an end table for her and Sam.

"You don't have much time, Sam," she told him when he was settled on the couch.

"I know," he replied, not looking at her, but concentrating on opening up and turning on his laptop.

"He won't admit it, but he's scared. Won't be much longer before the holy water won't work anymore," she said.

"I know," Sam repeated. He let out a sigh and looked at her. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I guess I'm kinda scared, too."

"I know that, too," she said with a kind smile. "But so are the Jergensson brothers. They know you have the information and power to get rid of them now. They won't make it easy on you boys – especially Dean."

Sam nodded. "So, do you know where they're from, or where they died and were buried?"

"Arkansas."

"Back where this started – maybe back to the girl," Sam whispered and started typing.

Dean woke a few hours later. He stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling. Light was coming in through the curtains, so he knew he'd slept for a few hours. He looked to his left, at the other bed. It was empty – Sam hadn't come back to bed, or had and had already gotten up again – but their duffel bags were packed and sitting on top of it. Sam must have found out where the brothers were buried, he thought.

Rising slowly from the bed, holding his sore ribs as he did so, he grabbed a clean shirt from his bag and put it on. Next were yesterday's jeans and socks and then he reached for his boots. Sam came into the room as he was about to put them on.

"You got them okay?" Sam asked, nodding at the boots, wondering if Dean would be able to lean over and tie them or if his sore ribs would protest too much.

"I got 'em, Sammy," Dean replied and proceeded to do so, hiding the pain as best he could, if only to prove that he could. "I take it we got some place to go?" he asked.

Sam saw the hope in his brother's eyes. He answered with a definitive, "Yeah," adding, "I found 'em. We can be there in about five hours."

Dean nodded, finished tying his boots and sat quietly for a minute, catching his breath.

"You okay?" Sam asked, concerned.

"I'll be better in about five hours," Dean replied. He reached for the small case with the syringes.

"Should you – " Sam started.

"Yes, Sam, I should," Dean replied angrily. "If I could get another IV of this going for the ride, I'd do it, but I can't, so I'm gonna poke as many holes in my arm or wherever else I can reach and OD on this shit just so _I_ can be the one to light the match and burn these assholes." That said, Dean continued to ready the syringe and his arm and injected himself with holy water. And then he did it two more times, before saying, "Let's get this show on the road," while he put his supplies away.

When the brothers emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later, ready to go, Missouri was waiting for them.

"I'm ready when you boys are," she said.

"No – " Sam and Dean both started to say. Sam continued, "Missouri, we're grateful for your help. Really. But coming with us is too dangerous."

"More so than what I've already seen and gotten hit with in my own home this morning?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or how about at _your_ old house?" she added.

Dean opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by Missouri as she put a finger across his lips, closing them, and saying, "Oh, don't you even go there Dean Winchester. You're lucky I consider you a boy that's just feeling poorly right now or I'd wash that mouth out with soap!"

Dean had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and found himself staring at his boots.

But Missouri wasn't done talking. "And _you,_ Sam. You've got _no_ excuse!" she aimed at him, adding, "Remember that."

Sam laughed for the first time in days. It felt good. "Yes, ma'am."

They left the house and were on the highway soon after, Sam driving, Missouri in the front passenger seat and Dean looking none too happy to be sitting in the back seat of his baby.

As he drove, Sam filled Dean in on what he and Missouri had found. The little girl, Theresa Connor, had been the Jergenssons' second victim. Her father was the one who had killed the brothers, after he'd found out that his sister had been abused by them. None of it had been reported to the police – Steven Connor hadn't wanted his sister to go through any more trauma in the court system and had taken justice into his own hands.

Unfortunately, when the brothers were murdered, they decided to do the same thing – and as ghosts retained some of the traits of the demons they'd let possess them just years before – and took possession of Steven Connor. Also unfortunately, the brothers never told him that they'd do the same thing to his eight year old daughter as they had to him and his sister. He thought that by killing himself, he'd take the brothers with him.

The car ride seemed to have taken a lot more than five hours, Dean thought, as they finally arrived at their destination. The cemetery wasn't too old; it was obviously one still in use, if the Jergensson brothers were buried there. Sam's research had found that they were buried there only a little over a year ago.

Dean was the first out of the car, ready to get the job over and done with. Missouri handed him a bottle of holy water. "Just in case?" she asked. He nodded to her, took the bottle and drank it down as he walked toward the graves.

Though it was late afternoon, and Sam worried that people might see them, he was just as eager to get this over and done with as Dean. They agreed that Missouri would be their lookout and warn them of any intrusions – human or otherwise. She refused to take the shotgun, though.

"I'll take Timothy's. You take Thomas's," Sam said to Dean, motioning to the side-by-side graves to their right. "Just take it easy on your ribs."

"Yeah," was all Dean would say. He stopped a few feet before Thomas Jergensson's grave, turning the shovel handle lightly in his hands.

He was anxious. Even though he'd drank more holy water and taken a shot every hour during their drive, he still felt as if the brothers would somehow, now that he was at their graves, ready to salt and burn the bitches, take over.

He startled when Missouri put her hand on his shoulder.

"I'll let you know, Honey," she whispered, gently turning him so she could look into his eyes. "I'll feel them; warn you."

Dean swallowed, and nodded his head quickly, looking away from her, his discomfort with her tenderness showing as much as his fear of the brothers.

Almost an hour went by with Sam digging almost constantly. He'd gotten to the coffin in Timothy Jergensson's grave and was about to open it.

"Both – burn them at the same time," Missouri said.

Sam looked at her and then at Dean, questioning his brother with a look.

Dean had only gotten about half-way to Thomas's coffin, his sore ribs and his anxiety taking precedence over his earlier eagerness to get the job over and done with.

"Dean? You okay?"

"He's fine," Missouri said, trying to reassure Sam. "Just tired and sore."

"I'll finish," Sam offered. "You get the salt and lighter fluid ready," he added, climbing out of one grave and into the other.

"Thanks, Sam," Dean replied. "Besides…"

"I'm getting a feeling, Dean," Missouri told him, quickly giving him a bottle of water.

Dean didn't question her feeling, having sensed something himself. He nodded his thanks and gulped the water down as Sam dug faster.

While Sam dug, Dean dropped down into Timothy's grave and opened the coffin. He heard Missouri murmur something, but wasn't sure what, and didn't care at that moment. He propped open the lid and liberally spread the salt over the body and then poured the lighter fluid on top.

"Sam?"

"Almost done," he replied, tossing his shovel out of Thomas's grave. "Hand me the salt, Missouri?"

Missouri did as she was asked, and then handed him the lighter fluid before Sam could ask for it. She handed Dean another bottle of holy water as he got out of Timothy's grave.

He again nodded his thanks and gulped it down. Once done he looked at Sam and threw him a book of matches. "On three?" he asked.

"Yeah."

The brothers watched each other as they lit a single match, then used it to light the rest of the book.

"One," Dean started.

"Two," Sam continued.

"Three," the two said together and dropped the flaming matchbooks into Timothy and Thomas Jergensson's graves.

As soon as the flames burst from the graves, though, Dean started screaming and dropped to the ground, curling up into a fetal position, unable to comfort himself or ease his pain in any way. On top of that, he was being dragged down toward the closest grave, Timothy's.

"Dean!" Missouri and Sam cried at the same time, each grabbing onto Dean, keeping him from the flames.

Dean kept screaming, as if the flames in the graves were burning him as well as the brothers' bodies.

Missouri and Sam kept holding on, kept crawling and pulling Dean away from the graves, both willing the flames to hurry up and consume the bodies and souls of the demon-ghost brothers.

Sam didn't know how much longer he could listen to Dean's screams. He wondered if he should have been doing an exorcism ritual at the same time, to cover all the bases. He wondered if they should have called their Dad, or Uncle Bobby for help. He was about to curse the Jergensson brothers to Hell once more when Dean suddenly quieted and stilled.

"Dean?" he called quietly. When he received no response, he checked his brother's vital signs – and was relieved to find them as strong as ever. He looked inquiringly at Missouri.

"I don't feel them anymore," she whispered, gently running the back of her hand across Dean's cheek and brow.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well that's good, but…" Sam replied, a combination of relief and worry in his voice.

Missouri met his gaze. "Don't worry, Sam. Dean's still here."

Sam nodded his head and gave her a half-smile. "We better get out of here."

Sam closed the lids on the coffins and began to bury them again. Missouri relinquished her hold on Dean, and laid him gently onto the ground. Then she got up and began helping Sam fill in the graves.

He gave her a surprised look, said "Thanks," and kept on shoveling.

They were just finishing up when Dean began to stir, his head moving slowly back and forth as a quiet groan escaped his lips. Sam and Missouri immediately dropped their shovels and knelt by his side.

"Dean?" Sam called gently, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was gravelly. "They gone?"

"You tell me," Sam replied.

Dean looked to Missouri for reassurance.

"I don't feel them anymore," Missouri told him, repeating her earlier words to Sam.

"Help me up," Dean said, grabbing onto Sam and pulling.

Sam grabbed onto Dean and got him to his feet; held onto him a moment longer as Dean got his bearings. Then Dean pushed him away and took a step toward the brothers' graves.

"You may want to turn your back, Missouri," he warned.

"Dean?"

"Gotta piss," Dean replied. "All that water goes through a guy, you know?"

"Dean!" Missouri scolded, halting him mid-zip. "You just don't do that! No matter whose grave it is!"

Dean counted to two before responding tiredly, "These assholes will probably try to come after me no matter what I do or don't do, Missouri. This'll make me feel better. And besides, I don't think I'll make it to the woods, if you get my drift…"

Missouri quickly looked away, as did Sam, who just gave her a shrug as his own comment.

When they'd gotten back to the Impala in the cemetery parking lot, Dean had automatically reached for the case of water they'd had.

Missouri stopped him, though, saying, "Maybe you should lay off the holy water for a while, Dean."

"What?" Dean balked.

"Until we know for sure," she replied.

There was an uneasy tone to her voice, but he understood.

"Gotta detox again," Sam put in.

Dean shook his head saying, "How crazy is that? Hell, we'll make it easy this time. Just grab me a case of Molsons and I'll be good to go."

Sam smiled. "Why don't we start with some soda for starters? Maybe hit the Mickey Dee's we passed on the way here," he suggested.

"I'll buy," Missouri offered.

The drive back to Missouri's was uneventful. Sam had driven. Dean never-the-less had felt uncomfortable under Missouri and Sam's constant scrutiny. And, he had to admit later, that he _had _felt fidgety – he _did_ want to drink one of the bottles of water… Out of habit; out of fear.

"You're doing just fine, Dean," Missouri whispered to him more than once, leaning up toward him from the back seat. "I still don't feel them," she'd kept repeating, patting his shoulder each time.

She'd offered to let them stay with her again and despite Dean's protests, Sam, the voice of reason, agreed. "She'll know, Dean. She'll let us know if they're still with you," he'd said.

That thought stayed in Dean's mind, even as he kept pacing the length of the porch at Missouri's house, at three the next morning, looking at the Impala parked in the driveway, wanting to open the trunk, open a bottle of the blessed water he knew it contained…

He hadn't been able to sleep; memories of the pain, of the voices, as the brothers tormented him, over and over again, as they cursed him and all he lived for as they burned in that graveyard. He remembered them as they spoke through that little girl…

He was startled as the front door opened and Sam walked out.

"Here," Sam spoke softly, handing him a bottle of beer.

Dean nodded gratefully as he took the bottle. He gulped down a few sips and wiped the sweat from his brow and upper lip onto his sleeve.

"You're doing fine, Dean," Sam told him.

"Thank you, Doctor Friedman," Dean replied sarcastically, but between Sam's presence, the cool calm the beer gave him or both, Dean felt himself relax. He leaned against one of the porch's support posts and said, "Sorry."

Sam nodded. "It's been over twelve hours, Dean. When's the last time you lasted that long?" He was trying to put a positive spin on things.

When Dean looked down, then to his left, away from Sam, though he thought he'd made things worse. He was just about to press him further, wanting Dean to see his point of view, when his brother finally answered.

"A month ago, maybe. When I was drinking, it was about a bottle a day. Then, shooting up… at first it lasted a few days, almost a week. When we hooked back up, once a day…" He saw the look in Sam's eyes and shook his head. "Sound like a goddamned junkie, don't I? You gonna make me start going to NA meetings?"

Sam laughed a little. "Nah." He took a sip of his own beer. "But I'm not gonna let this happen again, Dean."

"Sam…" Dean started, rolling his eyes, ready to tell Sam that this was not his fault; that he wasn't even around at the time…

"Dean," Sam interrupted. "I never even noticed! I had no idea that there was something wrong! We've been living on the road together, sharing the car, the motel rooms… We've been in each other's faces for months. How could I have not seen this?"

"You've had your own demons to deal with, Sam," Dean replied, recalling his own memory of Jessica's death, and how it had consumed his brother in grief.

"You've _both_ been busy looking in other directions, for other things," Missouri told them, her silent approach startling both brothers. She ignored their irritation at her interruption though, and took a seat on the porch swing. She had a mug of tea in her hand. "Trust me on this," she added and took a sip.

By now both Winchesters knew not to try to argue with the woman. They just nodded to her and took another sip of their respective beers.

"They're gone, Dean. Truly," she said after a few moments.

Dean nodded and smiled to her and took another swig of his beer, not comfortable with her scrutiny. He wanted to believe her. He _did _believe her. Yet…

He felt her hand on his right shoulder, turning him. He found himself in an uncomfortable, yet warming embrace. "They'll always be with you, in your memories, Dean. But they can't hurt you anymore," Missouri whispered to him. She pulled back a bit, forced him to meet her gaze and added, "And they can't hurt Sam."

He felt a hand on his left shoulder then, a gentle squeeze; reassurance: Sam.

"We're in it for the long haul, Dean," he said. "Finding Dad, finding the thing that killed Mom and Jessica… No more secrets, though. No more fighting alone."

Dean nodded. "Sure," he said.

A slight shiver went through Dean as he touched the top of his beer bottle to Sam's and then to Missouri's mug of tea. He thought he heard laughter in the air, but shook it off to his body's former addiction, however weird it was.

The End

A/N: OMG! Did I just write "The End"? Finally! Thank you to ALL of you faithful readers and reviewers out there in fanfic land! This has truly been a hell of a fic to write – I don't know how many times I wanted to give up on it, so cookies to all who have kept at me. Especially to November's Guest and shywalk – who got the original drafts way back when, and later got the emails from me, after the show had Dean torturing the demon with holy water, saying, "No! I thought of it first!" or something like that… Sigh…


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